A morning without rain.
A day I don't have to see
somebody sacked.
An evening without news.
A picket line.
The presence of people I love.
An absence of things.
Categorized as Licks

At the Railway Station, Upwey.

At the Railway Station, Upwey

You would not recognise it now,
surrounded as it is with neat
homes, a net curtained wilderness
winding to the Ridgeway.

Yet as the wind wanes
and Sunday men look up from
washed cars, the air reveals
notes played in a high register:

unmistakably, a violin.

17 Licks

17 Licks 

Small fish swim down stream
from deep pools where they were hatched
      spawned a million times

              This small dish of rain
            shines like a plate of bright sun
                  caught in flagrante

   Coal fires flame inside
the belly of an engine
       rising to full steam

               Rails glint in moonlight
             frost covers up the edges
                   of a cold platform

    Where the blackbird sings
slow dawn slithers up to see
       who has breakfast first

                Foxes scream at night
             fearing us and attracting 
                    friends for company

     When you sleep my love
 dark night coils around your form
        keeping safe your heart

                 In a tree house topped
             by green leaved branches bending
                     in the wind   you sit

      Full of praise for fun
the small comedian laughed as
         he died of stage fright

                  Pigeons sit above
             the heads of travellers splat
                       by white spots of shit

       Where contention reigns
 sanity is not intact
         conflict batters peace

                   Shoes that do not fit
               pinch the toes  the insteps swell
                        the feet start aching

       Drinking in a pub
  though costly and frowned upon
          socialises you

                    A morning of rain
               before the grass can be cut
                        an afternoon's rest

       That black dress you wore
  we were drinking in that bar
          your legs smooth and brown

                     The sun on hot sand
               burned onto your feet as you
                        ran into the sea

        The garden you dig
   deeper than the depth of soil
           grows from inside you
Categorized as Licks

When his hair was long

When his hair was long

When his hair was long
and his waist was slim,
when the booze had not yet
crackled his skin;

when his eyes were clear,
ideals still intact
and trite cynicism
was not yet a fact,

she loved him.

Keeping it Right

Keeping it Right

We've been on strike a few times now.
We're not concerned about the reason
but for the smell of the picket line.
And when it's over, armbands stowed,
work is brighter for a time,
scabs slinking in
as we look bosses in the eye.
No one can quite hold our stare.



I was ready to go out,
About to leave the flat,
Had done the washing up,
Had found my hat.

I had put my lenses in
And brushed my teeth (I'm sure),
Put on my coat and opened
The front door.

I stepped out for the Tube
With all day trippers gone,
When I noticed that I had
My slippers on.